


Stradivarius

by VickyStark



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Epic Friendship, Fluff, Gen, Graphic death of a violin, Sherlock is a child, Watson is done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 09:14:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30019500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VickyStark/pseuds/VickyStark
Summary: A detective's violin ends up engulfed into flames when the renowned doctor Watson can't sleep.The story : A burning violin, an exhausted detective and an angry doctor.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 1





	Stradivarius

**Author's Note:**

> This too was written years ago, I'm unearthing many fictions I wrote. It was written for a friend who was very fond of the idea of a violin thrown into flames. I don't know how I should feel about him and this statement.  
> Enjoy!  
> I'm still French, so sorry if you find any mistake.

Disclaimer : A big thank you to this genius called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and to Guy Ritchie who depicted an excellent Sherlock Holmes and a John Watson that I found beautiful, unique and endearing.

A cold and piercing wind was blowing through the streets of London.  
The weather was ruthless and freezing, not hesitating to reap the lives of homeless people with a vicious and slow death. Their bodies would freeze on the spot, their faces forever frozen in a peaceful expression.

Thus, at this very moment, Watson was more than happy to be comfortably hidden under warm blankets, near a crackling fire rocking him into the arms of Morpheus.  
Sighing in satisfaction, John turned around to find a more comfortable position. The bed protested against the movement with a plaintive squeak.  
He briefly wondered who or what might come to disturb his well deserved rest. There was always something happening. Or rather, someone.  
He grimaced in pain when bruises earned while arresting another murderer awoke with furious intensity. 

One more fight, which was not his first and certainly wouldn't be the last. Watson would never admit it, but he loved his job as the 'assistant' of one so called detective.  
John smiled slightly before curling up against his pillow, hoping he could sleep a few more hours, before Holmes came in to wake him up with his usual delicacy.

Watson listened closely when he heard a strange screeching noise, like an old door creaking. The doctor waited several seconds to hear it again, but shrugged when the silence remained undisturbed.

He ran his mind through a mental checklist.

No Holmes throwing open the door of his room by making the most noise humanly possible, narrating one of his absurd experiments with an incomprehensible speech rate.

No Gladstone lying half dead on the ground. 

No Lestrade storming in his rooms to ask their help on the case.  
And it was the middle of the night, so really, no one would come bother him at that hour. Any sane person, except Sherlock Holmes, knew that provoke the anger of the ancient soldier would be suicidal or at least heavy with consequences.

He had forgotten a possibility. Only one. So obvious it had escaped him. John's eyes narrowed in annoyance when he heard this horrible screeching noise piercing through the ceiling and disturb his sensitive ears.  
A sound produced by the strings of a violin abused by its owner. Said owner who bore the name of one great Sherlock Holmes.

Sighing loudly, John abruptly threw away the blankets that were tangled in his legs and stood up, heading with a determined step towards the stairs to Sherlock's room.

John climbed up the stairs with a heavy and dragging step, picturing the smirk his friend would display seeing him exhausted and upset beyond any expectations.  
If they hadn't known each other for so long, John would probably have strangled Sherlock in an fit of rage.  
Oh, but he had already done that. The hard lines of the former soldier changed into a grin when the memory popped in his mind. He had tried to strangle Sherlock, believing he had just killed his wife. Mary Morstan, to whom Sherlock never failed to express his displeasure at her presence.

With a sigh, Watson opened the door leading to Sherlock's room, the hair on his neck suddenly stood up to shrill and dissonant sounds coming from the tortured violin at the hands of its cruel master.

Sherlock crushed the bow on the violin' strings, trying to make as much noise as possible. He suddenly looked annoyed and upset.  
No Watson screaming his name, no loud noises coming from the stairs. Nothing. Only silence. It was not what he wanted. That would not do.  
He then proceeded to slid the bow quickly and repeatedly on the strings, earning strident and shrill cries from the violin.

The great detective smiled and chuckled quietly when heavy footsteps reached his ears, approaching in a drawling and agonizing speed.  
Sherlock exhaled slowly, composing his face into a serious and focused expression. While inside he was boiling with the urging desire to laugh and mock the poor doctor he had so abruptly pulled off from his sleep.

Allowing a smirk to twist his lips for a few seconds, Sherlock repositioned the instrument on his shoulder, now gently placing the bow on the strings. His fingers pressed the strings with dexterity when Watson entered his rooms. The doctor looked exhausted and fuming.

Sherlock smiled innocently as John glowered at him. But the detective's chocolate eyes flashing with mischief were the cause of his downfall.  
"Something wrong, Watson?" Sherlock asked, casually setting down the violin on a table.

John suppressed the urge to punch the smirk off his friend's face, making the very hard choice to solve this problem civilly and politely. As any distinguished doctor should.

"Actually, yes. You're playing that damn violin when I am trying to sleep. It's past three in the morning, dammit!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands up with an irritated huff.

"I am sorry. I had not realized it was this late." Sherlock said, his expression almost convincing. He never apologized, not to anyone. Even on the brink of death, Sherlock would never say 'sorry'.

Hands clasped behind his back, the detective stepped back to face the fireplace.  
"It is truly a shame I kept you from sleeping, as tomorrow, you are to have dinner with your dear Mary." He hissed slightly, his tone bitter and his gaze fixed stubbornly on the crackling flames.

The doctor frowned, eyeing Holmes with an incredulous and annoyed look.

"That's what all of this is about? Mary is my wife, Holmes. Get used to it." Said Watson, his tone sharp and blunt.

Sherlock showed no visible reaction, except that he stiffened slightly at the doctor's words. Stubborn, he remained staring into the dancing flames, to the despair of his friend.  
"And to be sure you won't further sabotage my rendezvous with Mary..." Watson began as he abruptly grabbed the violin.

Sherlock turned around too late, barely having the time to see his beloved Stradivarius being thrown carelessly in the unforgiving fire.

"No!" He cried, looking in despair as his violin was engulfed by the flames.

The violin strings were consumed almost immediately, producing a sharp, popping sound. Then the wood of the instrument darkened under the constant assault of the fire. Sherlock seemed aggrieved, almost pained as he watched his violin burn with empty eyes.

"Stop being such a child, Holmes, it's just a piece of wood." John let out with an exasperated sigh.

"This simple piece of wood, as you call it, has prevented you from sleeping multiple times." Sherlock reminded him with a ghost of a smile.

He winced almost as if in pain, when he saw that his torture device dedicated to his friend was now little more than a pile of ashes.

"Go to sleep, you need it." Watson insisted, glancing at the heavy dark circles under Sherlock's eyes. One could almost mistake him for a raccoon.

"I do not need to sleep, Watson." Sherlock retorted dryly, dropping into a chair with a heavy sigh.

John chuckled lightly, shaking his head incredulously. Holmes was reluctant to grant him a single glance, opting rather to stare at the ceiling, the floor, or any object that caught his attention. John watched with an amused expression his friend startle suddenly as his eyelids were beginning to fail him. Watson snorted softly, approaching Sherlock with a mocking expression.

"Obviously, you do-"

Watson quieted suddenly when he saw that his friend had surrendered and fallen asleep. Slouched in the chair and snoring softly, the puzzle solving machine seemed almost harmless. Almost.  
Watson would not be fooled a second time.

John went to grab a blanket, covering the slumbering form of his best friend with it.  
"No need to sleep, uh?"

The next morning when he woke up, Sherlock found a new Stradivarius resting on the mantelpiece, a red ribbon tying the bow with the instrument.  
Sherlock smiled before grabbing the finely sculpted piece of wood, turning it to observe the object from all angles.  
With the violin resting against his shoulder, the detective swiftly slid the bow on the strings with skill, smiling even more in appreciation when the melody escaped the instrument in clear and harmonious notes.

He did not hear Mrs. Hudson pressing herself against the door to listen to his playing, a tender smile softening her usually severe features.


End file.
